


The Question

by Lyledebeast



Series: Margaret and John [2]
Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Married Life, Misunderstandings, Pregnancy, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyledebeast/pseuds/Lyledebeast
Summary: Margaret and John learn that they are expecting, and Margaret raises a concern with the family doctor.  His misunderstanding leads to more than one awkward conversation, but all ends well.





	

Margaret had decided to keep the news Dr. Donaldson had given her a secret shared only with her husband for the time being.  John had agreed readily enough, but his redoubled tenderness towards her and his new lightness of spirit would, she was certain, be all the evidence his mother needed.  Even before she joined her family. Margaret had marveled at her mother-in-law to be’s powers of observation where her son was concerned.  She could sense one of his onsets of melancholy long before Margaret could, and she suspected almost before John did, and it was unlikely that he would be any more effective in hiding his joy from her.

Margaret felt herself fortunate, then, that Hannah was a woman who respected privacy: that of others as well as her own.  Perhaps she would keep silent for the same reason that she herself found it so important.  After all, Fanny had announced that she was expecting almost as soon as she had learned it, and her happiness had been more genuine than Margaret had ever seen in her.  How much more pain it must have given her to have to confess to her family that she had lost the child only a few weeks later.  And even if nothing so dreadful did happen to Margaret, the news that she was now expecting would bring her sister-in-law no comfort. She might not understand Fanny, but she had no wish to hurt her.

It had been a few days since her appointment and sharing the news with John, and in that short amount of time a host of difficulties had presented themselves.  As modest as she tried to be, she knew that several improvements in the lives of the women and children working at the mill had been owing to her influence; who would look out for them once she began her confinement? Who would visit those retired workers in poor health whom she had befriended? And she knew that John would miss her bringing him his lunch every day; indeed, he would probably return to his bad habit of skipping it altogether.  And there were things that she would miss about him too.

Still, she felt a bit selfish with her misgivings about what should be such splendid news.  It wasn’t that she didn’t want John’s child; what could be a more desirable outcome of their marriage?  But it seemed so soon.  It seemed such a long time after Edith’s marriage that she wrote to Margaret with her good news, and it had taken so long for Fanny, by her own estimation at least, that when she told her family it had seemed to be with relief as much as happiness. The truth was that she wished she had more time to spend with John, just the two of them.  Furthermore, she was worried that her pregnancy would bring about the end, if only temporarily, of the part of their marriage she had come to enjoy so much.

There was no denying that the first time John had pushed himself inside her it had been painful.  However, she had taken some comfort in knowing that he was as mortified by that as she was, perhaps even more.  But since then, with much discussion followed by much practice, they had learned how to please her, and the pain was only a memory.  Though she now enjoyed sex as much as her husband did, it had taken less time for her to become acquainted with the workings of John’s body.  Upon further consultation of the book her mother-in-law had pointed out, she realized that it was far more explicit about what the man was to do to the woman, not how it was supposed to feel.  And it was even less helpful on the matter of what the woman was to do.  As far as it was concerned, her job was simply to lie still and let the man do his work.  They had tried that, but it did not last long. It was less pleasant for her, and she found that John needed reassurance.  The best way to give him that was to touch him in her turn.  He had never minded the exchange of control; indeed, she thought he seemed to relish it. And once she had put her worries about pregnancy aside, it was vindicating to know that their way had worked, however unconventional.

But now that it had, how soon would they be forced to give it up? The thought was so troubling to her that as soon as Dr. Donaldson had asked if she had any further questions, it had burst forth from her lips before she could stop herself.  From the speed with which his eyebrows rose on his already lined forehead, she knew that it was not a question he heard often.  The blood had rushed to her cheeks with embarrassment, but it was much worse when he lowered his brows and glared at her suspiciously.

“Is your husband . . . demanding?” he had asked with concern.

She narrowed her eyes with confusion.  What could that have to do with her pregnancy?

“No, never.  I’m sorry.  I have no wish to . . . it’s not John that concerns me, but . . . how much longer will . . . will it be safe for the child?” His reaction had made her so nervous that she could barely pose the question.  Amid the embarrassment, she reproached herself for being so ridiculous.  She had taken the news of her pregnancy calmly enough, only to fall apart now because her doctor had discovered that she enjoyed the activity that had brought it about.  After he told her that he knew of no danger to the child in any activity that was comfortable for the mother, she had left with what she would have considered months before to be a rudely terse thank you. It was such a relief to be out of his office.

Fortunately, the sting of humiliation she carried away from her appointment had melted away with the joy of sharing the news with John.  His happiness had made her forget that she herself had felt anything else at the news, and after dinner he had scarcely been willing to let her out of his arms, let alone his sight.  How different he was two days later when he returned from the mill in the evening.

* * *

He was late, arriving just before dinner was announced.  There was nothing too unusual about that; it was often difficult for John to pull himself away.  There were always so many things to be done; Margaret understood that well enough herself from her own projects.  But when he gave her only a brief, cold greeting and ate his dinner in silence, she knew that something had happened.  And it had been recent too; he had been his usual self when they had lunch that afternoon.  She wanted to ask what was troubling him, but experience led her to decide against it.  If he knew that she was worried, it would only increase his own anxiety about . . . whatever it was.  No, it would be better for him to tell her in his own time, as he surely would.  Since they had married four months earlier, they had been through their fair share of quarrels, but she was confident that her husband trusted her.  Her patience had made for an awkward dinner, though.  Hannah, who was dinning with Fanny and her husband that night, shared Margaret’s disdain for small talk, but she was well acquainted enough with the news of Milton to always be ready with topics that would keep the flow of conversation away from the mill.  But in all the time that had passed, Margaret had yet to really find her way in the society of her peers.  She had found she preferred the straightforward talk of working people after all.

When she told John that she was going to bed, he bade her goodnight without making any move to join her.  As she mounted the stairs, she found to hold her anxiety in check.  There had been two nights when he had threatened to sleep in his study, but on both of those occasions, she at least knew why he was upset with her.  And she had made sure that he ended up sleeping where he belonged.  As she undressed for bed, struggling to untie the stays that she had gotten so used to John helping with, she determined to do the same tonight. 

Catching sight of the long gown laid out on her bed, she considering changing into it.  But it was rare enough that she put on clothes for going to bed now.  When she and John undressed each other, it did not lead immediately to sleep; she only put on her gown if she awoke in the middle of the night shivering.  That thought only made her feel worse, and instead she pulled on her long robe over her chemise and drawers, drawing it close around her.  Her appearance might be indecent, but no one was there to see her except John.  And she no longer minded appearing indecent before him.

She could almost hear him sigh through the door of his study as she knocked, but he opened it at the sound of her voice.  He always did.

“John . . . what’s wrong,” she asked as she stepped inside, patience abandoned.

For a moment, he looked at her with confusion from his chair behind the desk; then his head drooped slightly. “Nothing is wrong . . . exactly,” he murmured, still not meeting her gaze.  “I’m just a little tired.”

Margaret eyed the open book on his desk with suspicion.  “In that case, shouldn’t you be upstairs in bed?”

She put her hands on her hips, stepping towards him to make him look at her. A hint of color began to rise in his cheeks, but he knew better than to look away again.

“I was going to come up, Margaret.  I just wanted to wait until . . . until.”

“Until I was asleep? John, it . . . it isn’t like you to avoid me when you’re angry with me.”

At that, his eyes widened with worry and he stood up, stepping around the desk and coming to a stop in front of her.  “I’m not . . . angry with you, Margaret,” he insisted, a note of helplessness in his voice.  “You’ve done nothing wrong.  I just . . . I think I’m the problem.  This is my fault.  I . . . I don’t trust myself.”

She tilted her head to the side, utterly bewildered.  Where was this coming from?

“You don’t trust yourself?” she asked flatly.  But when his gaze fell away from her again, she knew that incredulity was the wrong approach.  She reached for his hand, cradling it in both of hers.

“John, please,” she plead softly.  “Tell me what is bothering you.”

He heaved a deep sigh, but made no effort to retrieve his hand.

“As I was walking home this evening, I met Dr. Donaldson.”

Margaret felt her heart sink.  He knew; the doctor must have told him.  Once again, she felt dual sensations of embarrassment and self-reproach for the embarrassment steal over her.  It was humiliating that John had discussed such an intimate part of their life together with someone she hardly knew, and yet . . . surely after four months of sharing a bed with her, he didn’t need his family doctor to tell him _that_!

“I only wish that you had spoken to me about it, Margaret,” he said with resignation, easing his hand out of her grasp and dropping it to his side.  “We’ve always been honest with each other before.”

Now, she truly didn’t know what he could possibly mean.  She spoke cautiously, trying not to betray her frustration.  “Well, John, I really don’t know what he could’ve told you about our meeting that would distress you.  I told you everything that seemed important to me that evening.”

For a moment, the worry in his eyes seemed to give way to relief, but then his brow creased again.  “He told me that you asked . . . that some of your questions left him with concerns about how I was . . . what I expected of you.  That he wanted to make sure I understood that you should be treated with . . . delicacy.”

Margaret felt her cheeks warm again, but this time in indignation.  Her question had been thoughtless, possibly, but how could it be troubling to a man with so much medical experience? And furthermore, what did Dr. Donaldson know about how she should be treated?

“What questions, John?”

Her husband glanced away, shifting uncertainly.  “He . . . didn’t tell me.  Maybe I should have asked him to be specific.  But I thought . . . if your questions made him think me a brute, I could only add to his concern for you by asking what they were.”

This time, Margaret could not contain a scoff.  It was too ridiculous.

“John, be sensible. The first time I saw you, I berated you for attacking a man who was a stranger to me, do you remember?”

The tiny smile that appeared on his lips let her know that he did.

“Do you not think, then, that if I considered you to be . . . brutal towards me, I would have no qualms about telling you so?”

He smile widened a bit, but he glanced away sheepishly.  Margaret wondered if he was perhaps feeling some embarrassment himself for his reaction.  It was a sensation with which she was familiar.  After a moment’s consideration, she stepped closer to him and reached up with both hands, gently turning his face back to her.

“What I asked him was . . . I asked him how much longer I could be with you as . . . as we have been.  Perhaps he thought I was asking because you would want me to.  And perhaps he thought I was considering using this news as . . . as a way of avoiding a task I consider unpleasant.  But I think you know better than that, don’t you?”

He looked down at her gravely for what felt like an age, narrowing his eyes as though trying to discern how much truth she was telling.  She became conscious of the strain of standing on her toes, and was just about to release him when he finally nodded.  She smiled broadly and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her.  He exhaled and then she felt his arms around her waist.

“Let’s go to bed, darling,” she murmured.

At her words, she felt his back stiffen, and he straightened up, pulling out of her grasp.  “No.  Not again,” she said to herself.

“I still think we should . . . be careful, Margaret.  For the baby.”

“John,” she said with an edge of warning, but as she saw the concern that still lingered in his eyes, she decided that the time for verbal reassurances was past.  Instead, she began to unfasten the buttons holding her chemise closed.

“Margaret,” John gasped in alarm, raising his eyes from her chest briefly to look at the door behind her as though he feared it would open.  “What are you doing?”

“What I have to do, John.  You won’t listen to reason, so . . .”

Undoing a final button, she let the chemise fall open, baring her breasts. Her heartbeat began to quicken with excitement as the chill of the room stiffened her nipples.  John stood as though nailed to the spot, his mouth gaping.  He had, of course, seen her more naked than this, but never here.  Never in his study, where he met to discuss business with other men.  She wondered if the impropriety of it excited him as much as herself.  By the time she reached for his long hands and brought them up to cup her breasts, she was already growing hot and swollen between her legs.

“We shouldn’t . . . not here,” he protested weakly as she pulled his head down for a kiss.

She persuaded him quickly without words after that.  Soon he was burying his hands in her loose hair, and she opened her mouth wider to give him more access.  When she lowered her hands to grasp his rear and pull him tighter against her, she could feel his erection pushing against the front of his trousers already.  She was just beginning to wonder where would be the best place in the study for them to lie down when he reached for her breasts again, rubbing his calloused thumbs back and forth over her nipples.  Her sex throbbed and she held back a cry by taking his lower lip between her teeth.  When he pulled back, she worried for a moment that she had overstepped, but he, too, seemed to have abandoned the use of words.  As he looked down at her with lust-darkened eyes, the only one he could manage was, “Upstairs.”

The fabric of the hastily refastened chemise brushing against her now very sensitive breasts as she rushed up to the bedroom made her wish she had insisted on remaining where they were.  But perhaps that would have been too overbearing.  She smiled to herself as she turned to watch John, advancing a bit more slowly due to his own uncomfortable swollen parts.  Perhaps it was she who was the brute in this marriage.  By the time they reached the bedroom door, she had decided to favor his wishes for propriety.  She let him close it behind them before she pulled him to her by the waist, quickly working open the fastenings of his trousers and drawers.  Pleased with her speed, she lay back on the bed, propping up on her elbows to enjoy a glimpse of his beautiful, flushed erection stretching out from his otherwise impeccable suit before he was on her.

* * *

It wasn’t until John was lying next to her with his head on her shoulder, sighing with tired pleasure as she combed through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, that she spoke of the incident again.

“I’m not sorry that I asked him,” she confessed, as much to herself as to him.

“Hmm?” John murmured without opening his eyes.  “Who, darling?”

“Dr. Donaldson.  Even after all the confusion.  We know now; that’s all that matters. And we still have some time to enjoy ourselves.”

Despite her optimism, she frowned as she withdrew a hand from underneath the covers gathered around her waist, placing it on her flat belly.

“To look at me now, you would hardly know that there is . . . someone growing inside here.  Growing bigger and bigger . . . for the better part of a year.” She inhaled deeply as worry began to creep into her mind again.  “I’m . . . everything is going to change so much.”

Without moving his head from its place, John covered her hand with his own, wrapping his fingers around hers.

“Well, yes.  But not forever, Margaret.  I know you’re worried about what will happen, months from now, when you’re no longer able to do everything you’ve done . . . for the workers.  But that’s not only important to you.  I see the good you’ve done; I’ll make sure it continues when you have to leave.”

She smiled as she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.  “Thank you, John.  But . . . you realize that I’ll be back, don’t you? I have no intention of letting motherhood stop me.”

He chuckled against her chest.  “I would have to be a fool,” he admitted as he nuzzled the top of her breast, “to not know that.  But as you said, we have time left.”

At that he turned his head, licking her nipple until it was hard and then suckling it into his mouth again.  She gasped and threw off the covers, pulling his hand down between her legs to press his fingers against her lips, still wet with the spend he had left there a little while before.  Time, indeed.  And they would make the most of it.

 


End file.
